


The Truth Is So Boring

by SilentSinger



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Hate Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Sexual Fantasy, Violence, i'm taking charlie's violent tendencies and running away screaming, kids: don't do drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Charlie wrestles with his inner demons.





	The Truth Is So Boring

For as long as Charlie can remember, Dennis Reynolds has always been like _that._ It’s a difficult concept to put into words (especially for someone as inarticulate as Charlie), but Dennis’ innate Dennis-ness never fails to give rise to a part of Charlie he’d rather keep locked away, flushed down with brown and huffed to within an inch of its life.

It’s not that Charlie has urges very often. As a general rule, sex is something that other people do, that Charlie enjoys vicariously through their detailed and frequent accounts.

Now, Charlie could do without hearing about Frank’s latest sexcapades with Artemis (currently heavily involving Funyuns; Charlie can only suppose it’s some sort of ring toss situation), and as for Mac’s laughable attempts to pass as hetero, they just make Charlie kinda blue, if he’s truly honest. Dennis though, his tales of sin and debauchery get right under Charlie’s skin – partly from the desire to reason with this sick son of a bitch (and ‘reason’ here means ‘sock the motherfucker in the mouth and kick him while he’s down until he’s sobbing and begging in a pathetic heap of blood and dented hubris’), and partly from the desire to pick up that very same quivering shell of a man, and wreck him just a little bit more.

It’s a strange situation, really, and not one that Charlie fully understands. In part, he figures, it’s because of his mom. Sometimes he’d like to imagine a world where Bonnie Kelly isn’t a huge slut, where Santas of all shapes and sizes aren’t running a goddamn train on her for money, but the truth is hard to ignore, even for a man as cheerfully oblivious as Charlie. She’s a fine woman though, and she raised him pretty good – she nurtured him and kept him safe and taught him right from wrong.

And that’s the issue. These women – these poor bastards that Dennis uses and abuses and coerces to sign fucking waivers – are all someone’s loving daughter, or hardworking sister, or (when Dennis is feeling like slumming it), someone’s passably hot mom. Sure, he’ll sit and listen to Dennis’ conquests with the rest of the Gang, and he’ll whoop and cheer at appropriate moments while Dee wrinkles her nose in that way that makes Charlie’s tummy feel like he’s eaten too much stale cat food. It feels great to conform, to fit in and play along. But deep down like a tapeworm sucking away at all of his essential nutrients, is that need for a release of repressed aggression – for vindication, and maybe a little something else.

****

Charlie remembers the mall like it was yesterday. The enticing hiss of white noise in his ears and the urgent thump of blood rushing to his skull; the not-so-delicate crunch of his teeth penetrating Santa Claus’ fat neck, and the metallic flavour of blood filling his mouth as sweet and strong as canned wine with a whiskey chaser. It’s frightening, to completely lose control like that. But sometimes it’s the only thing that helps. Perhaps that’s why getting cunted to oblivion on whatever substance he can get his hands on is so goddamn appealing.

The first time he experienced this complete loss of inhibition was when they were seventeen or so, at a party at Brad Fisher’s place. Charlie and Dennis hadn’t been invited, of course, but Mac had, because he was the only dealer available. So naturally they tagged along.

Brad’s parents were out of town and the result was the usual teen house party. The obnoxious but consistent vocals of Eddie Vedder and company blare from Brad’s father’s imposing black Sony stack (Charlie recalls Mac getting one of those last Christmas), little red plastic cups are strewn about the place and the air is thick with blue-green bong smoke. Their peers glare at them through greasy parted hair as they make their way around, before Dennis disappears into the throng of gloomily gyrating bodies, eager to appease his many adoring fans. “They’ll cream their fucking pants when they see I’ve made an appearance,” he yells through the din. Charlie rolls his eyes.

Thankfully, Mac sticks around and offers Charlie a few free samples. Bros, after all, look out for one another. Charlie bypasses the weed this time (Mac’s current supply has him paranoid out of his fucking mind, fearing for his sanity and internal organs and praying to the porcelain god for an end to it all), and instead selects a couple of tabs of LSD, innocuously decorated with Sonic the Hedgehog.

Charlie lives for a decent psychedelic. They’re just so much fucking fun compared to the drab monotony of the real world. Imagine the most hilarious moment of your life to date, and perhaps give it a speech impediment and a pair of luminous green Crocs. Times it by fifty, and you’re still nowhere close to the sheer piss-your-pants hilarity of a tab of good acid. One time, Charlie had achieved a state of euphoric bliss, clutching his sides as tears of laughter streamed from his eyes as he lay on the cool tiles of Mac’s kitchen floor simply because of the way the sugar had cascaded, grain by grain, from the spoon when he was trying to make coffee.

Unfortunately, it soon becomes apparent that this is not good acid. This is the sort of shit that leads you to believe every motherfucker is whispering behind your back, the sort of shit that leaves you hugging your knees in the corner of the room while simultaneously brandishing a spatula for protection.

By the time Dennis finishes tending to the masses, Charlie is full-on eyes-twitching-fists-clenched ready to blow. The upbeat yet melancholic bassline of Nirvana’s _Love Buzz_ is reverberating from every nearby surface and Dennis is grinning like a rabid dog and waving a Polaroid with an air of superiority as though it were a hundred-dollar bill. From what Charlie can gather, Matthew “Rickety Cricket” Mara (a boy born with not only the affliction of being redheaded, but borderline crippled to boot) had passed out after being tricked into eating a pot brownie, which had naturally warranted a jovial teabagging.

“Charlie, have you seen this shit?” he thrusts the photo toward Charlie’s nose and jiggles it for emphasis. “Some of my finest work, I swear to God, man. I can’t wait for the rest of my loyal subjects to see this in class next week.”

_“Loyal subjects.”_ What a fucking prick.

“Where’s Mac? I need a little fuel for the fire,” Dennis continues, tapping his left nostril for clarity as if an ingrate like Charlie couldn’t possibly figure out what kind of fuel he’s referring to.

Charlie remains silent, his jaw clenched in defiance. As it happens, Mac disappeared to handle some business around the same time Charlie began arguing with his own reflection in the kitchen faucet. That fishy-looking bastard has a big fucking mouth, that’s for damn sure. And it’s not like he gives a shit about little Matty Mara, I mean, some kids just radiate an aura of ‘fuck with me; it’ll make you feel like a man’, right? But the way Dennis is conducting himself as though the world and all the hapless peasants therein exist solely to entertain him is just above and beyond at this point. He learned a little something from faucet-Charlie anyway; that aquatic motherfucker might be opinionated but holy shit, Fish Boy fights for justice.

As _Love Buzz_ reaches its peak and Kurt Cobain’s animalistic scream pierces Charlie’s cerebrum, the ball of molten rage bubbling inside of him emerges with all the ferocity of a tiger. He pounces at Dennis, hands scrabbling for the closest weapon to hand, and cracks him upside the head with a large baguette. The barbarity of this unprovoked attack catches Dennis off-guard, and after a scuffle and a swift kick to the balls, they’re on the floor, with Charlie’s fingers clamped tightly around Dennis’ neck. By now a sizeable crowd has gathered, hollering and cheering and baying for blood, but for Charlie, the kitchen and all its contents have melted away into a pile of ash and dirt and it’s just Dennis, it’s all Dennis, his face bright red and his mouth gasping for air like Bart Simpson being throttled by Homer. Charlie would laugh at the sheer absurdity of the sight, if it wasn’t for all the blood rushing towards his... oh, _shit._

Amidst the commotion, comes a cry as clear as a shaft of sunlight on a cloudy day. “Check it out, guys,” it shrieks with manic delight. “Dirtgrub has a boner!”

Charlie releases his chokehold and suddenly everything is back. The kitchen, the crowd of rambunctious onlookers, Mac by the refrigerator – looking concerned but entertained, and Dennis shitsucking Reynolds beneath him coughing fit to burst as the colour slowly but surely drains from his cheeks.

Charlie doesn’t stick around. He runs from the house, ignoring the mocking cacophony emanating from the kitchen and knocking gawkers and rubberneckers aside as he does so. The intense throb of fury and lunacy that had commandeered his entire sense of self a few moments ago is now planted firmly in his groin, and if it doesn’t get released soon he’s gonna-

He leaps over the hedge connecting Brad’s lawn to the house next door, loses his footing and finds himself facedown in a small but well-maintained vegetable patch. Fuck it. Rising to his hands and knees he fumbles with his zipper to free his excruciating erection, and begins to stroke with reckless abandon. His focus is solely Dennis. Dennis Reynolds covered in blood. Dennis Reynolds battered and bruised. Dennis Reynolds’ contemptible mouth wrapped around his dick, tears in his eyes as he silently pleads with Charlie to take it easy. Dennis Reynolds’ hands clawing at Charlie’s ass as his balls slap ungraciously against Dennis’ chin with a tawdry rhythm. _“Oh, you like that, you little bitch? Fucking take it.”_

With an earsplitting screech of satisfaction Charlie comes, the fingernails of his free hand clawing at the neatly tilled soil as little blotches of colour and energy bloom and dance into the centre of his vision. He hasn’t squirted that hard since he found his mom’s pornographic playing card set. The old codger whose cabbage patch he just fertilised flings open his door, wielding a baseball bat and screaming bloody murder.

Charlie grins, zips up his pants and flees the vicinity, howling with pent-up laughter as he does so.

He never sets foot in Brad’s neighbourhood again.

****

And so, like a worm gnawing away at the rotten core of an apple, as Dennis regales him with tales of utmost depravity and female degradation, the deepest darkest part of Charlie lies as dormant as a gently simmering saucepan. Oh, he’d love to lift the lid on that thing – to release the demon within just to see the sublime look of stunned bewilderment on Dennis’ face.

But the truth is, he probably never will.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m actually an unashamed Crocs stan. We all have our demons, no?
> 
> [conscience-killer.tumblr.com](https://conscience-killer.tumblr.com/)


End file.
